South Africans need to drill their sights beyond the lies and the fear and the manipulation, tilt their eye-line upward, and allow the warmth and magnificence of the South African sun to refocus their soles and rediscover the gees.
Johannesburg, South Africa (05 September 2022) – There’s approximately 4.6% less oxygen in Joburg’s air than at any sea-level locale. At an altitude of over 1,700m (5700 ft), the air is less dense. That lack of density affects the colour of Johannesburg’s sky. It, therefore, also affects the drama attached to our sunsets. And I love it dearly.
It’s a sky under which I feel I belong.
We all see the sky as blue because as the sunlight reaches our atmosphere, it’s ‘scattered’ by the various gas particles in the air. And blue light is scattered more than other colours because it travels in shorter, smaller waves. If you’re standing in South Africa’s City Of Gold and you’re looking up, there are literally fewer particles in the sky overhead and, therefore, less ‘scatter’.
Joburg is, of course, not the only city at altitude and not even in the running for the height-above-sea-level record. We’re 18th on that list and only the third-highest African city behind Addis Ababa and Nairobi. But the rarefied air is only one of the unique and worryingly addictive aspects of life in the financial capital of the (Forbes rated) 2nd most dangerous country in the world to live.
As the rubber stamp stomped down on my green, relatively well-thumbed South African passport, I gratefully made a beeline for the nearest OR Tambo International men’s room. 10-hour flights aren’t kind to a nigh-on 50-year-old liver. Especially one that was asked to put up with the abuse my earlier manic drinking years inflicted on it.
As I entered the bathroom, the cleaning staff guy, with a smile as wide as the gaps in an ANC-controlled metro audit, said,” Welcome to my office”.
I haven’t heard that in nearly three years. It made me smile. It slid a slab of pre-cast concrete under my restless souls. It made me feel like I was home. Like I should stop searching.
There is, unfortunately, another heartbreaking side to those kinds of interactions. The (mostly) friendly and energetic petrol attendants; the car guards promising to watch your jammy while you stroll through the shops; and the hundreds and thousands of waiters bringing us our cups-of-chino and our Eggs Florentine; they’re all scraping by. Not on a liveable minimum wage, but below the breadline. Eighty years of Apartheid gave birth to the torture, and nearly thirty years of corrupt ANC rule sustains it.
But therein lies the essence of the spiritual beauty of Johannesburg – and South Africa as a whole. It’s got a gees.
For my non-SA mates, that word (gees) is pronounced as spelt, but with a gravelled G. It’s an Afrikaans word, colloquially utilised, meaning (good/strong) spirit. That gees supersedes politics and racism, and poverty.
One of the saddest things I see when I’m lucky enough to return to my native land is that South Africans don’t see it. They’ve lost sight of the gees. The frustrations and failures that have torn our focus from our collective coolness are very real and, for so many, super dangerous. Save for one brief four-year honeymoon period – when the inspired and inspiring Nelson Mandela drew back the curtain on what was possible – South Africa has never had a righteous or effective government. Crime continues almost unabated. Services – electricity in particular – continue to rise in price while at the same time failing dismally in dependability and efficacy. The entire list of South Africa’s political leadership is dishonest and manipulative to its very core. Since our nation’s inception, politicians have effectively divided and conquered us. And the bigots, the myopic, racist cowards – both white and black – have helped them do it.
But yet that light shines through.
I only wish South Africans would drill their sights beyond the lies and the fear and the manipulation, tilt their eye-line upward, and allow the warmth and magnificence of the South African sun to refocus their souls and rediscover the gees. That warmth belongs to us all. That blue sky – burned purple and orange and golden by the dying of the day – that sky is the roof over all of our heads.
I don’t feel like I can return home yet. It might not ever happen. I don’t know where I’d find a decent job, and my wife loves London. As I write this, I am in tears. But I will cherish this brief period in this troubled but beautiful, soulful place; and among people with whom I share a rich and layered and honourable heritage.
And, dishearteningly, in too short a time, my painful search will continue.
Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika
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